


Wool

by karin6824



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue, Pre-Epilogue Mockingjay, Prompts in Panem, Round 8: Farewell Tour, growing back together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:38:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5428220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karin6824/pseuds/karin6824
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in those first tentative steps towards each other, in between the healing and the growing back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Green

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Contrast Of White On White](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712933) by [lesbianophelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianophelia/pseuds/lesbianophelia). 



> LavenderVanilla beta'd this not once, but twice! This would be such a mess and half what it is without her comments. So go check her stories, because they're a great read!
> 
> This was my entry for Day 1, Round 8 (Farewell Tour) of Prompts in Panem. The prompt being 'Grow Together'.
> 
> A little side note: I always struggle with picking gifts for people, so I've learned to show my fondness for someone through the wrapping. Last year for christmas I bought plain brown paper and spent days painting snowflakes all over it. I'd like to think that Peeta, being the creative type of person that he is, would do that too.
> 
> Now, enjoy!

 

 

The fire slowly flickers back to life as I add more logs to the fireplace and settle in front of it, basking in the warmth. It’s one of the few upsides of staying inside instead of going hunting and freezing in the unforgiving winter that has just begun. A knock on the door brings me out of the daze I fell into while staring at the flames and I mentally run through the short list of who it might be, but come up with nothing. Haymitch usually just barges in, Peeta knows he no longer needs to knock, and Greasy Sae just came the day before and usually doesn’t return for another few days.

I head to the foyer and sneak a peek outside through the lacy curtains that cover the window. Peeta stands by the door, wrapped in a thick coat, the wind messing his blonde hair. My brows furrow in confusion wondering why he doesn’t just come in as usual. I go to open the door, turning the knob and pulling it open, but it won’t budge.

 

“Katniss,” Peeta’s muffled voice comes from the other side.

 

“Peeta? The door is stuck,” I tell him, as I try again.

 

“No, I know. Don’t-” I keep rattling the door. “Stop. Don’t do that. I’m the one holding it.”

 

I stop. “What? Why?”

 

“I’ve got something for you, but I want it to be a surprise. So I need you to close your eyes before I come inside, please.”

 

“What?” I peek again through the window, but don’t see anything.

 

“Hey!” He jumps when he sees me on the other side of the glass. “No cheating! Besides, I’m hiding it.”

 

“Can’t I just open the door? It would be a surprise anyway.” I try not to cringe when I realise I sound like a spoiled brat.

 

“I would prefer for it to be a surprise inside where it’s not freezing if you don’t mind.”

 

That makes me relent a little. “Do I really have to?”

 

“Yes. Now go to the living room and wait for me with your eyes closed.”

 

I huff, but agree anyway. I don’t particularly like surprises, but decide to humour him.

 

“No peeking!” He shouts from outside as I shuffle my way to the living room. I plop down on the couch and close my eyes.

 

It feels ridiculous. But something inside me curls and flutters, and I feel like pulling the blanket from the back of the couch and hiding my face in it. I bite my lip to keep it from curling upwards too much.

In the darkness, I hear the door open and close and Peeta’s heavy feet stepping closer. He hesitates, standing some place behind me. “Are your eyes closed?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You sure?” he teases.

 

“Yes.” My hand moves up to play with the end of my braid.

 

It wasn’t until recently that my hair grew long enough to braid, but it still is much shorter from what I was used to. It’s a weird thing to miss. Long hair. Especially considering everything that was lost, makes me seem vain and heartless. Maybe I am, a little.

The sound of Peeta moving around brings me back and I dismiss my thoughts quickly before they can spread any further. Instead, I wonder what the surprise might be.

 

“Is it cheese buns?” I ask.

 

He laughs. “That wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?”

 

I think of what else Peeta might have baked for me and sniff the air searching for a clue, but only find the familiar scent of wood burning in the fireplace. “I don’t smell anything,” I muse out loud.

 

“That’s because it isn’t food.”

 

It could be anything then. But for some reason I can’t think of something, other than food, that Peeta might want to give me as a surprise.

I can’t get over the fact that Peeta wants to give me a surprise in the first place. I bury my hands beneath my legs to keep them still and not let my nervousness show.

 

The couch dips as I feel Peeta sit down. “Can I open my eyes now?” I ask anxiously.

 

“Almost.” I hear him moving something beside me. “Okay. You can open them.”

 

My eyes lock with his blue ones for a moment and then, embarrassed, lower to his shoulders. He seems relaxed, yet eager, and he must have taken off his coat at some point when walking in, since it’s now missing.

Something makes me hesitate for a second before I finally look down to see what sits between us on the couch. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out when I see it. It’s a cardboard box with the woods painted on it. My woods. Dozens of trees, pines mostly, painted in lush, deep green tones, covering the sides. Their peaks reaching for a gray, almost white, winter sky. And at the top lids of the box, with the same sky background, actual pine sprigs are poised together instead of a bow.

 

“For you,” he says softly.

 

Unsure, I look back up at him, silently asking if I can open it. If it really is for me. He smiles and pushes the box a little, closer to me, giving me the go ahead.

 

“Why?”

 

I can’t help myself.

It’s not my birthday. It’s not a special date. I haven’t done anything to deserve a gift. Yet Peeta has given me one anyway.

 

“I wanted to.” He shrugs, like it’s that simple.

 

I don’t open it right away. I take my time admiring the painting, turning the box so I can see every side. I can almost see the clouds moving, the trees swaying with the wind, birds taking flight.

 

“It’s beautiful,” My voice comes out small and full of awe.

 

He smiles. “Open it.”

 

With tentative fingers, I free the sprigs being held by a few staples to the box and bring them up to my nose to smell them. They’re fresh and familiar, and for some reason make me feel alive, stirring something inside me. I pick one and carefully weave the end of the twig through the hair band that holds my braid together, leaving the other ones on the wooden coffee table beside us. Peeta reaches forward and brushes his fingers down my braid, stopping at the end to make sure that the sprig is secured.

 

“It fits you,” he says, giving a gentle tug to my braid. My blush matches his.

 

I focus my attention back on the box and with my fingernails scratch the tape that holds it closed until I can peel it off.

Something like giddiness overcomes me as I draw the lids open, I curve my body forward to see inside, my face hovering over the opening. And there, inside this forest box, several balls of yarn await me, and something else hidden beneath them that I can see the corner of. There are different tones of green and soft browns wools. But mostly green.

My lips curl up softly as I pick a green one up and feel how soft it is. I leave it in my lap and go to grab the other object that’s hidden underneath, but I just bury it deeper under the balls of yarn.

I dig my way through, playfully throwing a few balls at Peeta to make more space in the box.

 

“Hey!” he exclaims, throwing them right back at me.

 

A laugh bubbles its way up from my belly, dusting the cobwebs from my throat. It feels so easy.

Finally, my fingers clasp a thin book. My breath comes out stuttered, mixing with the remaining chuckles that escape me as I calm down. How to knit – Beginners. My eyes scan over the cover, drinking it in. I open it, turning the pages slowly.

 

“I know you like your sweaters,” Peeta says shyly, while I study the book.

 

I do like my sweaters, but not for the reasons Peeta thinks. I love how I swim in them, my too thin frame getting lost in the thick fabric, cosy and warm. But the main reason is that most of my sweaters are really Peeta’s. That I put them on at night when I go to bed and close my eyes, inhaling his smell, and pretend he’s there with me. We don’t sleep together. Peeta doesn’t trust himself to wake up in the middle of the night and not… hurt me without realising it in the midst of a nightmare. Sometimes we take naps together, one on each end of the couch. But we spend the nights apart.

 

“And I know that you were looking for a new hobby,” Peeta continues, “since painting didn’t work out…”

 

That had been the therapist’s idea. Find something to fill my time with during the winter, that is; since hunting wasn’t really an option. Peeta had offered to teach me how to paint, but that hadn’t gone exactly well. I have no skill for it.

 

“I thought that you might like knitting…” He tells me. “And I already asked Sae and she knows how to knit and she said she could help you if you had any trouble with it.” From the corner of my eye I notice he’s scratching his left knee, probably where his flesh meets the prosthetic beneath his pants, a tic that seems never left him, even after being brainwashed. “The needles are inside there as well, they must be at the bottom. And there are more books too. Not in the box, I mean—, I can get you more. Later. Once you’ve learned how to knit and gone through that first one, if you want, that is…”

 

He’s rambling, I realise. Trying to explain this gift- no, himself, in an act of… what?  Self-preservation? Making his present seem only logical so he’s not wearing his heart on his sleeve; so I don’t have the chance to break it when I reject his gift. Reject him. But I’m not going to.

It’s the opposite.

I look back down at the book in my hands and then move my eyes to the forest painted box in front of me and the scattered balls of yarn on the couch and the floor. It’s too much. The box, the twigs of pine, the green balls of yarn, the book. Peeta. The one from before. No trace of the hijacking.

 

He must see the tears brimming in the corner of my eyes, because he rushes to add, “I can send it back, if you don’t like it… I wasn’t sure—”

 

“No,” I shake my head. My fingertips skim over the picture that illustrates how to knit a ‘basket weave’ pattern for a scarf. I blink a few times before looking back up to his eyes.

 

“No, it’s perfect,” I tell him honestly, my throat tight. Peeta opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure.

 

I want to go over to him and kiss him, reassure him, and only pull back when we’re both breathless. I want to show him how much this means to me. How much- No one has ever cared for me like this. Taken care of me. Not since my father died. No one has bothered to pay attention to the little details and give me things I didn’t know I wanted or even needed. No one but Peeta. I wish I knew how to voice all of that.

Instead, I reach over with shy fingers and squeeze his hand, my eyes trying to convey everything my words cannot. That’s all I can manage.

 

“It’s perfect, Peeta. Really—” I force myself to swallow the lump on my throat. “Thank you,” I insist, my voice breaking a little. I hope he understands.

 

 


	2. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet afternoon at home. When ‘normal’ finally becomes routine. Set around a year later after 'Green' (the first chapter).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Submitted for Promps in Panem, Round 8, day 6. Ironically, the prompt for this is Yellow.
> 
> The words on italics is a quote from the book ‘The Shock of the Fall’ by Nathan Filer.
> 
> Thank you to LavenderVanilla who is an amazing beta and writer and helped me so much with editing (it was a bit of a mess before).

 

 

Winter has never been my favourite season, but I think I’ve started to enjoy it, and it’s not hard to say that I could get used to this. To the rain pouring outside while we stay inside, wrapped in blankets in front of the fireplace, with the smell of still warm cheesebuns in the air. Buttercup passes between my legs as I walk to the living room and then leaps into the couch to settle on Peeta’s lap, seeking his hand, which automatically starts scratching behind the his ears. I hand Peeta his mug, filled with tea – no sugar – and sit down beside him on the couch, leaving a small space between us, and prop my woollen socked feet on the coffee table. I peer at him behind the rivulets of steam coming from my own mug, a soft smile on my lips.

 

He gives me a playful look before scooting closer, pressing our sides together. The fluttering in my stomach spreads inside me and I look away, pink blossoming on my cheeks. I bite my bottom lip, but I can’t hide the way my mouth curls upwards. And I don’t need to look at Peeta to know that his does too.

 

We don’t really talk while we sip our tea, we just sit there in comfortable silence and listen to the rain outside and the crinkling of the burning logs in the fireplace, as he continues to pet Buttercup. I sneak peeks at him when he isn’t looking, my eyes quickly fleeting away when I discover that he is and that I’ve been caught… Only to return again moments later.

 

I enjoy the quiet. The certainty that comes from our companionship drowning out the silence. All those things that now go unspoken between us because they’ve become normal. Things that seem so natural now, like brushing the back of his hand, not even considering the need to apologise, the way I used to when he had just gotten back and I was unsure of what might be a trigger. We used to walk on eggshells around each other, dubious of every little thing we did and didn’t do. I was always second-guessing myself, thinking about the effect things might have on Peeta and that I could lose him at any moment. Our relationship was tentative and shy, both afraid of scaring the other away, without really knowing that all we both wanted was to stay.

 

 

Too focused on keeping my mouth occupied, I’ve gulped down my tea leaving only dregs at the bottom of the mug. My hands clutch the empty mug, and I feel warm all over, but would gladly drink another cup of tea just to keep myself distracted.

 

Leaving Peeta alone, I place  the mug on the table and excuse myself, to fetch the  knitting bag that I had left earlier in the kitchen.

 

When I return, Peeta has his legs spread in front of him, Buttercup gone, and he  swapped his mug for one of the books he’s currently reading. He does that, read two or three books at the same time and spreads them around the house. It used to annoy me to no end; he’d bring one of the plots up in a conversation and I’d have to somehow know which character belongs to what story. But I got used to it in time, and I’ve learned to keep up with him.

 

I round the couch and he only notices I’m back when I plop down next to him, making him jump slightly. He unconsciously snaps the book closed and gives me a sheepish look. “I’ll never get used to your soundless footsteps.”

 

“Sorry,” I mumble and, for some unknown reason, a blush rises up my cheeks.

 

“Nothing to apologise for.” He tells me, shaking his head.

 

Picking up my knitting bag, I dig out my needles, the honey coloured ball of yarn I’ve been using, and the small rectangle I’ve knitted so far. Peeta gives me a smile and then returns to his book. We settle back into our quiet and I continue the scarf I’ve been making for Delly, adding the clicking sound of my needles to the background.

 

After a while I leave my knitting aside and interrupt Peeta. “Do you… Would you read for me?” I ask shyly.

 

He turns his head away from the book to look at me. “Out loud?” He says, his eyes bright with surprise.

 

“I- yes.” I mentally curse my stutter. “Please,” I add as an afterthought.

 

“Of course,” he says. “You don’t mind starting at the middle?”

 

I shake my head. I don’t really care about the story, I just want to listen to his voice, his deep and soft timber that never fails to soothe me.

 

“Okay then,” he looks down at me, “Ready?”

 

I bring my legs up to the couch, folding them under my body, and nod in confirmation.

 

“All right.” He clears his throat and then starts reading. “ _The first thing she did was place her doll beside her, resting it ever so gently on the long grass. It looked comfortable, with its arms flopped to the sides and its head propped up a little_.”

 

Peeta continues to read for me, and I relish in the way his deep voice fills the room, wrapping around me like a familiar, thick blanket, enveloping my senses. It relaxes me and warms me from the inside better than any tea could. I drink up the sound of his words, pulling me closer to him until I tuck my body to his side and rest my head against his shoulder. I feel content here, and I don’t have to ask if it’s okay anymore. A smile tugs at my lips.

 

The next thing I’m aware of is the thud of the book as it lands on the floor, jolting me awake. Outside, the rain is gone and shy rays of sun started peeking through the clouds, bathing the room in a yellow light. Peeta sleeps beside me, his head thrown back on the couch and his eyes shut. Snuggling closer to him, I inhale the smell of the bakery that is forever fixed on his skin, and pick up the red woollen braid laying on his belly that I fashioned for him to use as a bookmark, toying with it distractedly, weaving it through my fingers.

 

It reminds me of another story that Peeta had read and then told me about, and that I had called silly at the time. About a red string of Fate. He told me that it was based on a myth that said two people who are destined to meet each other have an invisible red string tied around their finger that pulls them closer. The string may stretch or get tangled in the way, but it is said that it cannot break.

 

And now, with Peeta’s warmth pressed to my body as he sleeps soundly beside me in the quiet of our living room, and this braided red yarn wrapped around my finger, it makes me think, maybe.

 

Because against all the odds, we found our way back to each other. After everything we experienced, we somehow ended up here.

 

And I can’t shake the feeling- the certainty - that this would have happened anyway.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!  
> I'd really appreciate it if you left a comment!  
> I'm thestuckinbed on Tumblr.


	3. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally submitted to d12drabbles on tumblr for the prompt Hope. There are some minor changes to the version posted here.
> 
> Unbeta’d, all mistakes are mine.  
> I don’t own the characters, the world, nor the quotes borrowed.

 

 

When Delly first gave us the news that she was pregnant, I felt a flicker of emotion I didn't recognise, something like a spark lighting up inside me. She and Thom had been trying to have a baby for more than two years, without success, and had slowly started to believe that, maybe, they would never be able to. The weight of defeat had started to show on their shoulders. It was something that, with the subtlety of District 12, everyone obviously had heard about, but knew not to bring it up around them.

 

They did the same with us. Peeta and I, that is. Kept away from anything related to babies when talking to us. Peeta had told me about a theory circulating around town that speculated we had become infected with the pox during our time in District 13, the same thing that had left so many there barren. They didn’t know that we weren’t even trying. That I was terrified of the idea of having children.

 

And Delly and Thom didn’t know either.

 

So when they got the confirmation from the doctor in town that they were indeed going to have a baby, we were the first ones they told. They invited us to have dinner at their home, a fairly common occurrence that rotated on whose house every time. Thom had barely opened the door, the warm glow of light spilling outside, when Delly jumped on us and blurted out the exciting news. Peeta, easygoing, sweet Peeta, reacted right away, hugging them both with enthusiasm and asking all the right questions. I didn’t know how to react. It was good news, right? It was good news. Great news. The war had ended a few years ago. No more Games. No peacekeepers. No ‘trespassing’ in the woods. No starving to death. There were plenty of job opportunities even, the medicine factory and hospital of Twelve were to be fully operating in a couple of months.

 

Nothing to be afraid of.

 

But still.

 

Some ancient instinct threatened to consume me, willing me to run.

 

But then Delly’s arms were wrapped around me along with her excitement and her radiant smile.

 

“Congratulations!” I tried to sound genuine. I was happy for them, but Delly mistook my hesitance for apprehension.

 

“It’ll happen for you too, Katniss,” she whispered to my ear, giving me a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry.”

 

Her words were kind, even in the midst of her bursting joy, she was trying to comfort me; even though it wasn’t necessary.

 

“No, Delly… uh,” I tried to correct her, tell her I don’t want children, but I didn’t know where to begin.

 

She let go of me looking into my eyes. “If anyone deserves to have children, it’s you and Peeta,” she stated, so sure, as if she was daring anyone to try to contradict her, including me.

 

She had been so utterly convinced, so sure that I would have children of my own, that it made me question my own convictions.

 

She was bringing a child to this world, and I couldn’t find an argument to fault her for it.

 

 

 

Pulling the blankets, I turn to Peeta lying beside me, and squint through the darkness to see if he’s still awake. His eyes are closed, but in the quiet I can hear his light breathing, and when I slide up his side and rest my head on his warm chest, his arm immediately surrounds me. “Peeta?” I whisper.

 

“Hmm?” he answers sleepily.

 

“Would you accompany me to the Hob tomorrow? I want to get some wool.”

 

“Of course,” he speaks just as softly as I do.

 

“I’d like a pale yellow tone. For the baby. Thom and Delly’s.”

 

He hums in approval, his fingers drawing indistinct figures on my arm. “What are you knitting?”

 

“I was thinking of a blanket. And a tiny, tiny hat.”

 

“That sounds nice.” I can hear his smile as he pulls me closer.

 

My hand cups his face, stopping him before he can bring his lips to mine. If I don’t say this now, I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to voice it later. “And maybe… maybe we could have our own baby?” I don’t intend it to, but it comes out as a question.

 

Peeta freezes still, and his eyes widen in surprise.

 

“Not now,” I rush to add. “I’m not ready yet. But eventually. In a few years maybe… is that okay?” I ask, my voice shy and so afraid of rejection.

 

But he looks so elated and overjoyed that my fear seems unfounded and, discarding it aside, I wrap my arms around his neck to bring him closer. He peppers kisses around my face, up my jaw, and nuzzles my neck, his smile against my skin. He presses a kiss to my lips before he answers me. “It’s more than okay,” he beams, his smile so wide that it stirs something warm inside me. And only now do I recognise that spark flickering inside me earlier, the flapping of wings in my chest, for what it had been. And there is no quenching it. It’s hope. It’s the promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again.

 

Because for a while now life has been good again.

 

 

 

 


	4. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this chapter. It took me longer than usual, and I edited a lot, and even then I'm not sure I managed to convey the circumstances and the mood how I wanted to.  
> Be warned, this is a darker one.
> 
> Also, about the quote in the beginning, it's from a book called "The Truce" (La Tregua) by Uruguayan author Mario Benedetti, and it's one of my all time favourites. It's romance and there's fluff and angst, but most of all, the writing is beautiful and it reads as if it were poetry (and with good reason, for I believe Benedetti is better known for his poetry than his novels). It is quite slow, though, so if you like fast-paced books it might not be for you, just something to consider.
> 
> I don’t own the characters, the world, nor the quotes borrowed.  
> All mistakes are mine.

 

 

“ _Ahí, en el pecho, cerca de la garganta, ahí debe estar el alma, hecha un ovillo_.” //

“ _There, inside the chest, near the throat, there is where my soul must be, curled up._ ”

─Mario Benedetti (translated into English by me).

 

*Ovillo in Spanish means both curled up and ball of yarn, sadly, that gets lost in translation.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gloves. For him. But that prove to be impossible, with their five fingers, each of a certain different length and that have to hold together in the right way to fit the shape of a hand. Forget it. Mittens it is.

 

It’s been a few days, weeks, since I last knit anything, but I’ve been uninspired, unsure of what to make next. I’ve been knitting a few lines of an undefined project only to unravel them later, chose a different colour, and start again. Then repeat.

 

 

Today hasn’t been a good day. Today hasn’t been a good day for several days now. And Peeta has taken notice. And I’ve taken notice that he’s noticed. And yet I lie in bed, sometimes staring out the window, sometimes staring at the untouched cheesebuns and the little flat packet that Peeta left on my nightable. I don’t know how many hours ago that was. I wish he hadn’t bothered. It fills me with guilt, but it doesn’t prompt me to move my muscles. Yet the idea of him not bothering at all doesn’t make me feel better either.

 

And so I lie there. The light in the room slowly changing, growing darker, the shapes of furniture elongating across the walls. At some point when it’s fully dark, Peeta comes back, trying to be quiet on his loud feet. He asks my name from somewhere near the door and I close my eyes hoping he believes I’m asleep. He pads further into the room and I hear him go through his nightly routine, pijamas, bathroom, light flicking on, teeth, peeing, water running, light again, closing door, bed shifting as he removes his prosthetic, setting it beside his nightable, lying─ but he doesn't lie down, he remains sited on his side and somehow, I know his eyes are on me.

 

It’s a different kind of quiet between us. And not of the good kind.

 

“Katniss,” he starts, but I don’t want to listen and bury myself deeper into my pillow and the covers.

 

I know what he’s going to say; we’ve been here before. That Prim would want me to go on, that I’m not to blame for the people that died, that we were in the Games and then at war, that I kept both of us alive, that if it weren’t for me he wouldn’t be alive, that we live in peace now and the Games don’t exist and that is worth something, that Twelve has been rebuilt from the ashes and it’s thriving like never before, and that the same goes for all of Panem, that life does go on, that I’m stronger than I think, that I have him to lean on, that I can talk to him… We’ve had a variation of this conversation countless times before and I’ve heard every approach he’s had to offer. And I’ve long stopped seeing the point to it.

 

So I interrupt what he’s saying. “What are we doing, Peeta?” My voice sounds raspy from disuse and he startles a bit. I don’t turn around.

 

“What─” he clears his throat, “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean, why are we still here? Why bother?”

 

He stays silent so I continue.

 

“Why do we keep going day after day, after day, after _day_ …Wake, eat, hunt, knit, sleep. Repeat again. I mean what’s the point? ...Why─ why put so much effort into it?” My voice cracks. The little strength I have wanes and my speech grows smaller, like a lost child about to cry. “I don’t want to keep going anymore. I’m so tired, Peeta.” I feel him move closer and slowly lying down beside me. He settles around me, his arms holding me close, the rhythm of his chest rising and falling against my back. I’m not sure I want his comfort, but I don’t move away.

 

“I know,” he whispers.

 

“I don’t want to anymore.”

 

“I know. Sometimes I don’t want to either,” he says. And it breaks my heart.

 

 

Do we sleep? I don’t know. We spend the night holding each other, in some halfway land between dreams and waking. Not talking. At some point, I think we both cry.

 

 

The rising sun finds us tangled together in bed, dark circles under our eyes, still half asleep. My hand has sneaked up beneath his shirt sometime through the night, one of my legs between his, and still I try to tuck myself closer. His arms are wrapped around me, surrounding me in his warmth and his fingers comb softly through my hair. I know I will not be the first one letting go.

 

“Morning,” he murmurs against my hair, placing a kiss there. I notice the usual ‘good’ in his greeting is missing. He unwraps his arms from around me and sits on his side of the bed, reattaching his prosthetic. I kind of want him to stay, but I don’t want to drag him down with me, so I let him slip away and he stands up and goes into the bathroom. I close my eyes again.

 

A little later, I hear him come back into the room and feel him lying back down on top of the covers, pulling me closer, his fingers softly combing through my hair. “You can stay in bed as long as you need to.” I appreciate him saying ‘need’ and not ‘want’. Because I don’t want to stay in bed. Yet I find myself unable to gather the will to get up.

 

“I’ll bring you some breakfast and later I’ll draw you a bath if you want to,” he speaks the same way his fingers feel, soft, gentle, as if the only thing he wants is to take care of me. “And you can talk to me about it if you feel like it. Or Johanna. Or Haymitch.” I make an involuntary sound, like a choked laugh, and I know he’s smiling even with my eyes closed. “Dr. Aurelius. Your mom. Whoever you want or need,” he hesitates for a bit. “Even Gale. Just know we are here and that we care, okay?”

 

There’s a beat of silence where I don’t respond. I open my eyes. It’s not fair, and it’s cruel, but I ask all the same. “Why are you here?”

 

I can almost see how he recoils, shrinking into himself, like a small animal that has been suddenly hit by his master. I’ve hurt him. That’s all I ever do.

 

“Don’t you─ you don’t want me here?”

 

I _do_ , but that’s selfish of me to say. So I don’t answer.

 

Still, he’s earnest when he replies. “You know why. You must know why... Yeah, sometimes, sometimes I don’t want to go on either... I don’t see the point to things, to life, specially when I was getting better, back in Thirteen, in the Capitol. Why put the effort into sorting out my memories if almost everyone in them was dead? Why get better at all if my entire family’s gone along with the bakery, you hated me, and Haymitch has never really cared for company anyway?”

 

I wish I was holding his hand so that I could squeeze it in reassurance. “I didn’t hate─”

 

“ _Now_ I know you didn’t hate me, but I thought you did at the time. Or at least I didn’t see a reason for you to like me…” He pauses, “But I’m here now, and even though sometimes I might get confused, we have an actual shot at life, at being happy, with you,” he smiles, still brushing my hair, “And that makes it worth it. So I keep going. Because that feeling, of waking up together? Eyes still shut, but knowing you’re there, in my arms, your warmth, your heartbeat against mine, our minds sleepy and calm and the world quiet… isn’t that worth the effort?”

 

I take in his words, and while they’re filled with hope, all I feel is guilt. “I’m sorry.”

 

“No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.” I want to protest, but he goes on. “It’s okay not to be okay.”

 

 

He repeats his offer of making me breakfast, and I, although hesitantly, agree and tell him I’ll go downstairs to eat it. It hurts how much it seems to make him happy.

 

He’s almost out the door, when he reminds me of the flat package he left on my nightable, yesterday I think. He leaves and I reach for the small present, slipping my little finger through the flap, pulling it open, and emptying the contents onto the bedspread, a ribbon spilling over. He bought me a ribbon. A light blue one, the same colour of his eyes.

 

I think it girlish and ridiculous at first, but it’s actually Peeta being Peeta and paying attention to details and the fact that my hair is long enough to braid again. And that, more than anything, makes me smile, even though it also makes me want to cry. It’s soft and not too long, and I weave it between my fingers, admiring it. How can a little thing...

 

I untangle my hair, combing it through slowly with my fingers, and parting it into three equal pieces, twining them together into a short, immediately finished, braid. And I tie it together with the ribbon the colour of Peeta’s eyes.

 

 

 

I slip downstairs just as he’s placing the food on the table. He smiles when he sees me and makes a gesture for me to take a sit. He takes a place beside me, and when I know he’s looking, my hand brings my braid forward, revealing his gift tied around the end. His smiles widens even more if possible. “It looks beautiful on you,” he tells me. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks.

 

 

I study him over breakfast, wondering how I’ve never noticed that he too struggles, trying to understand how he can put such a strong façade. He never stays late in bed, unless I ask him to, and he goes through his daily routine as if nothing. Sometimes, he comes back tired from the bakery, but I just attribute it to the usual tiredness one would have after a long day and not something else, something deeper, darker. But now that I know, I’m more aware of the purple shadows under his eyes. Somehow, I dare to ask him how he goes through it quietly, without giving any hints. Also asking, unfair as it may seem, for him to talk to me about it. Even though I don’t tend to return the favour.

 

He pauses for a moment, thinking. “I think I just go through the motions, convincing myself that if I repeat them enough then it’ll become easier, it’ll be inertia that has by body going. Until the actions seem to have meaning again.” This time I do reach out for his hand on the table, and squeeze softly, like a heartbeat suddenly giving a hint of life.

 

 

 

That morning that I go downstairs to have breakfast with Peeta is not as if I’m suddenly cured and everything is okay. There’s still something unmoving in me. But something else, something like hope, like will, buried deep within me, like an old instinct that I had forgotten about, gives a flicker of life. And even though it goes out the next second there’s a comfort in knowing that it exists.

 

Days go by, and I start doing the same as him, simply going through the motions.

 

Starting out is the hardest part, each task a mental struggle, where I’m defeated more than once. But slowly, somehow, I find myself moving along with the rhythm of life, and Peeta is there to help me when I stumble.

 

Sometimes I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I’ve seen someone do. Peeta throwing me the bread. Prim sharing her meagre lunch at school with a friend. My mother seeing patients even if they were unable to pay. Haymitch sending a new wig for Effie’s latest birthday. Peeta buying me a ribbon for my hair, just because.

 

I want to tell him that I appreciate that he’s still here, that he’s hasn’t abandoned me, even though sometimes I don’t make for the best company. I want to tell him that he is more than just a friend, that he leaves me at a loss for words and my stomach doing flipbacks. And that I like how it feels. That if I could freeze a moment and live in it forever, it would be us cuddling under a soft orange blanket, basking in front of the fireplace in our home, the sun setting outside.

 

 

 

One evening, as he’s taking cheesebuns out of the oven, because he knows they’re my favourite, I try saying the words, but my mouth dries up and I barely manage the first syllables. He places the tray of cheesebuns next to me, where I’m sitting on the counter, and starts to pass them into a platter, sneaking glances at me every two cheese bun or so, a blush climbing up to his ears. “Peeta, I lo─” I try again, feeling more nervous than I ought to. I know he heard both of my attempts and is now afraid to ask. So before he can, I get down from my perch and wrap my arms around him, hiding my face in his back.

 

“Real,”  I tell him. And chide myself for not being brave enough to say the actual words.

 

But I know he understands when he turns around and hugs me back, saying “Real, too.” His smile brighter than ever.

 

 

 

I don’t have to knit to be okay. I’ll learn to do it own my own, eventually, with different things, so that when I don’t feel like knitting the world doesn’t come crumbling down. I go through a routine, slowly, waiting for things to have meaning again, and sometimes they do. But for now, I’ll lean on Peeta. And he’ll lean on me. Even if both of us are unsteady, wobbly. Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. But then again, we have others, too.

 

And that’s okay.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> As always, you can also found me on tumblr as thestuckinbed :)


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